


All Part of the Service

by devera



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 16:07:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2699102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devera/pseuds/devera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Jim just needs to get away from the war, even when he doesn't know it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Part of the Service

**Author's Note:**

> Sort-of-response to [this](http://gothamkink.dreamwidth.org/551.html?thread=31015#cmt31015) prompt on the kinkmeme - _I just need Alfred patching up an injured Jim, and maybe some sexy times._
> 
> As is my usual meme M.O. I ignored some but not all of the request, so sorry, OP; hope you liked it anyway. This is set just after ep9 and I started it before I'd watched ep10, so I was pretty happy when the mid-season finale _didn't_ completely kill my plot (yeah, using that term losely). In fact, I like to think that "Thank God" at the end wasn't solely about Bruce. Go ahead and try to tell me otherwise.

The second the door opened, Jim Gordon knew it had been a mistake to come. He could have just called, should have called, but wanting to know that everything was fine was really only part of it. The rest… Well, he was too tired and hurt too much to think about that in any great detail, and he’d told himself it'd just be for a second. He’d just go and see, and then he’d leave.

But now he was standing on the doorstep, looking at Alfred Pennyworth's expression as he took in the state Jim was in, he remembered why it should have been a bad idea.

"Detective," Alfred Pennyworth greeted levelly. "To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?" He stressed the word 'pleasure' in a way that implied it might have been the opposite, but Jim was starting to get used to the man's dry, sometimes acerbic wit. And he was almost sure that if Alfred really was unhappy to see him, it'd involve more grievous bodily harm than just an arch look.

"I was in the neighbourhood," he said, and Alfred's mouth turned down at one corner.

"My mistake," Alfred drawled, his gaze flickering down to Jim's feet then back up to his eyes again. "I didn't realise we'd moved to the Narrows."

"It’s nothing," Jim dismissed, not even bothering to play dumb.

"Walked into a door then, did you?" Alfred demanded, tone bone dry.

Jim grimaced and lifted his hand to his face before he remembered how much it damn well hurt to move at the moment.

"All in a day's work," he shrugged. "I just came to see if Selina was under control." He peered at Alfred critically. "You've called me twice in as many days and honestly I thought I'd find the manor burned down and the vaults empty by now."

"Don't even joke, Sir," Alfred said and stepped back, clear instruction that Jim should come inside. "I believe she's in the west wing at the moment. She seems to have taken it upon herself to instruct the young master in the ways of the street."

Jim could almost hear the air quotes in that statement as he stepped over the threshold.

"Sounds like trouble," Jim offered, trying not to imagine.

"I'm keeping an eye on them," Alfred supplied loftily, as Jim shrugged slowly and painfully out of his coat and handed it over. He was pretty sure the ribs were only bruised. It didn't hurt to breathe, at least.

"Not exactly ready to give him the birds and the bees talk just yet, huh?" he guessed, but something in the way Alfred turned away to hang his coat made Jim think that comment had gone down even less well than his appearance.

"You're a laugh a minute tonight, aren't you," Alfred observed, stepping past him to shut the front door.

Jim shrugged. "It's the painkillers."

"Well, come along then." Alfred turned away from the drawing room and started walking away, down the hall past the door that he normally led Jim into the drawing room through.

"Where are we going?" Jim followed, frowning as Alfred stopped in another doorway – to the downstairs kitchen, Jim realised when he reached it – and gestured Jim through, giving him a distinctly disapproving look in the process.  

"I don't know who patched you up, but they did a rum job of it, mate. Can't have you greeting the young master looking like a side of raw beef, now can we? Sit yourself down. I'll just be a tic."

Jim grimaced again, obediently climbing onto a kitchen stool as directed, pulling off his tie and watching in some bemusement as Alfred disappeared into the walk-in pantry, only to emerge a moment later with what looked to be a black medical bag that had definitely seen better days.

"You do a lot of patching up, huh?" Jim ventured as Alfred fetched out a number of items and pulled on a pair of latex gloves with disturbing efficiency.

"You'd be surprised," came the remark as Alfred turned to him and reached over to carefully peel off the butterfly bandages that had been holding the wound on his cheekbone closed, apparently inadequately. He dropped them to the kidney tray on the bench next to Jim's elbow and then popped a bottle of what looked like topical anaesthetic and upended it neatly onto a cotton wad. He then gripped Jim's chin and turned his face carefully to the side. Jim caught the thin, displeased line of his mouth as he was turned away and he held still, expecting Alfred to be somewhat less than gentle with him but the press of the cotton against the split skin skirting Jim's cheekbone though was surprisingly gently. The sting of the anaesthetic only hurt for a few moments, and then Jim couldn't tell if Alfred was touching him at all.

"Probably not," Jim countered carefully as Alfred discarded the wad into the kidney tray. "You learn a lot in service to country, when you have to."

Alfred paused for a moment and looked at him, and then turned back to his kit and tore a suture packet open.

"That you do," he agreed mildly. "You also learn how to spot a flimsy bloody excuse when you see one." He came back, bringing the needle close to Jim's face, eyes on his work.

Jim forced himself not to move. He could feel the pull of the needle and thread going through his skin, but the anaesthetic was doing its job of dumbing down the nerves.

"I just wanted to make sure everyone was okay here," Jim said, and Alfred, leaning close, deftly tied off the stitch and began pulling another.

"Well, we are, as you can see, okay."

Jim made to nod and then took a breath instead as Alfred tied off the second stitch and started on the next. He didn't know what else to say and Alfred didn't ask him anything more, so Jim stared at the other side of the kitchen, trying and failing not to watch in his peripheral vision while Alfred continued to work in silence for a few more stitches, until he finally lifted his hands and leaned back, staring critically at Jim's face for a moment.

"Since you're here," Alfred said finally, some odd combination of satisfaction and caution in his voice. "You might as well stay for dinner. Master Bruce will be glad to see you. Ms Kyle too, most likely, although she'll not act like it. Now, get your shirt off."

Jim turned his head back and opened his mouth, but nothing came out for a moment.

"Sorry, what?"

Alfred raised his eyebrows expectantly. It was an expression Jim was pretty sure he'd seen directed at Bruce on more than one occasion.

"I said," Alfred enunciated, gaze unflinching. "Get. Your. Shirt. Off. Because if a GCPD medic can't be trusted to stitch you up properly, then I'd feel a damn sight better if I saw for myself that you haven't cracked a rib."

Jim frowned. He was fairly convinced it looked nothing like a sulk. "It's not cracked."

Alfred didn't budge. "I'll be the judge of that, Detective."

Jim huffed a sigh and then grudgingly undid the buttons on his shirt and then reached down to gingerly pull his undershirt up to let Alfred see.

"Jesus bloody Christ," Alfred said flatly when he did.

"It's not as bad as it looks," Jim insisted. The look on Alfred's face seemed to disagree but instead of the expected lecture, Alfred only stepped closer, in between the spread of Jim’s knees, and laid his hand against Jim's side. Jim flinched, but only at the sudden proximity of another body, and only really out of reflex. Anyone who had laid hands on him in the last twenty four – no, actually, make that the last forty eight – hours had been trying to kill him, but Alfred’s touch was too light to hurt. It didn’t gel with what his body was expecting, and the press of Alfred’s legs against the insides of his thighs and the warmth of Alfred's latex-gloved hand against his sensitive flesh made Jim shudder before he could suppress it.

"Is it now?" Alfred said softly, and then seemed to shake himself awake. Suddenly he was back to business, leaning down to examine the contusions more closely, which put his face a lot closer to Jim’s lap than seemed abruptly proper. Jim braced himself and looked away over Alfred’s shoulders and forced himself not to think about, well, anything.

"That hurt?" Alfred demanded, glancing up at Jim's face.

He was so close, Jim could feel his breath across his skin and suddenly not thinking about… whatever it was he wasn’t thinking about became a whole lot harder. Suddenly he was conscious of the way Alfred smelled, clean like pressed linen; of the colour of his eyes, and his heat and the weight of his hand on Jim's ribcage, the solid wall of his body as he leaned into Jim's space.

"No," he answered, sounding a little breathless even to his own ears. “Not in the way you mean.”

"Hmm," Alfred intoned, narrowing his eyes at him for a second before glancing back down to probe gently along the intercostal spaces underneath the livid bruising. "This is what the pain killers were for?"

"Yeah," Jim said. "Alfred…"

"Well, you were right," Alfred said, gently pulling Jim’s undershirt back down. "Nothing seems broken." He stepped back and pulled off his gloves, and was fairly soon packing the kit away and returning it to the pantry while Jim just sat and tried to make himself move. Christ, but he was tired, and after that, whatever it was, he felt just a little more frayed around the edges than before. He was willing to admit that it perhaps hadn’t been his best idea to come here. He probably should have just crawled home to lick his wounds, but he’d been gripped by the idea that something was happening in Gotham that he might not be able to stop, and he'd automatically thought of Bruce, and Selina, and Alfred. He'd brought her here. It had been his idea. And while today's little run-in hadn't seemed related, that didn't necessarily mean it was. Whoever it was Dent managed to flush out with this little witness story, if they found out where Selina was, then they'd come for her, and getting to Selina would mean getting to Bruce, and going through Alfred to do it.

The idea had eaten away at him until he'd given in and driven over, but he was glad to find he’d been overreacting a bit. It was understandable. He was tired, in pain, not really thinking all that straight. He’d just needed to come here and see for himself that everything was fine, and now that he had it was probably best that he go.

"Here," Alfred snapped, and Jim blinked and realised he hadn't even managed to get to the first button on his shirt yet. Alfred's hands were back on him before he could object, fussing his collar into submission, and then the backs of his fingers were brushing Jim's chest as he began to button the shirt up. "If I leave you to it, we're like to be here all bloody night," he pointed out. "And the food’ll be here in another five."

And just like that, with the mention of food, what was best went straight out the window. Jim's stomach growled, loud enough that Alfred probably even heard it, a strange contrast to the flutter of something deep in his gut at the brush of Alfred’s knuckles against his abdomen.

"Take out?" he said. "I thought you did all the cooking?"

"Well," Alfred said, and shrugged, even as he fixed the last button and stepped back again. "To be perfectly honest, you happen to have caught us on pizza night."

Jim stared. "Pizza," he repeated.

"From Antonio's down on Robinson. I hope that meets with your approval?"

Implied in that statement was _Too bad if it doesn't,_ but Jim was behind pizza from Antonio's one hundred percent.

"If there’s a beer to go along with that," Jim enthused, "you’ll hear no complaints from me."

That seemed to please Alfred. He almost even smiled.

"Well then, let's go see what His Holy Terror and Her Royal Minx are up to, shall we?"

"Sure," Jim said, climbing achingly down off his perch and wincing as he tucked his shirt back in. "Just. No running."

"Oh, no, Sir," Alfred said mock-cheerfully, leading Jim out of the kitchen. "That phase is well over."

++++++++

Jim, for some reason, had never felt happier than in this moment. His belly was full, the couch was comfortable, there was a beer in his hand and a couple of kids sitting of the floor at his feet, bickering good naturedly about something across the long-empty Antonio's Pizzeria box between them, and it felt… right. Normal. He wasn’t sure he remembered what normal was, and considering the Eighteenth Century art on the walls and the priceless bric-a-brac, this probably wasn’t it, but for just this moment, it felt good.

He was so content in fact that he didn't realise Bruce was speaking to him until the kid tugged at his trouser leg.

"Sorry, Bruce," he murmured, sitting up a bit straighter and then swallowing a groan at how stiff he’d gone after sitting for more than five minutes. "Guess I zoned out there. What did you say?"

Bruce gave him a warm, indulgent smile.

"That's all right," he said. "I was just saying that you look…tired." The kid sure had tact; Jim knew very well what he looked like and tired probably didn't describe it. "I think you should stay the night. We have plenty of room, right Alfred?"

The question almost sounded like an order, but when Jim glanced over at Alfred, who seemed to have peeled off layers over the course of dinner without actually losing anything more than his jacket, he was smirking.

"Well, a little less than before," Alfred agreed, with a brief glance at Selina, who pretended she didn't notice. "But I'm sure we can find some floor space for him somewhere. The foot of your bed perhaps, Master Bruce?"

"He’s not a _dog_ , Alfred," Bruce chastised, but Jim saw Bruce's lashes dip in a partially hidden smile as well and realised with a soft burn in his chest that the two of them, normally formed up like some kind of impenetrable defence against the outside world, were teasing him.

"Well, it is a pretty nice floor," Jim conceded, and why the hell not. It wasn't like there was anyone at home to miss him. "I guess I will. Thank you, Bruce."

Bruce shrugged, like it was nothing, but there was a little colour in his cheeks.

"Well, on that note," Alfred announced, looking at Bruce and Selina in turn, "I believe it's time for you to both be going to bed."

"But it's not even late!" Selina objected, flopping backwards and Jim had to hide his own smile at how much she sounded like the teenager she obviously tried so hard not to be.

"Yes, and," Alfred said meaningfully, "what was the rule again?"

Selina huffed a huge, put-upon sigh. "Bed on time, pancakes for breakfast," she recited.

"Correct. Of course, it's no skin off _my_ nose if you don't actually want pancakes. Feel free to stay up as long as you like."

"Fine," Selina gusted. "I'm going." She rolled to her feet, as graceful as the animal she took for a name, and then stood for a moment looking down at Bruce. "You coming?"

Jim's eyebrows went up at that but as the colour in Bruce's cheeks deepened to an actual blush, he had to struggle not to laugh.

"Our rooms are at opposite ends of the house," Bruce pointed out, making a show of rising more sedately, but Selina just grinned.

"I know. Race you to the stairs! 'Night, boys!"

She bounded away, but Bruce didn't race after her. "She knows she’s faster than me," he said, perfectly serious. "Right now, anyway. Good night, Detective Gordon. Good night, Alfred."

"'Night, Bruce," Jim said, watching as Alfred reached out to give the boy’s hand a squeeze as he passed him by. Bruce’s footsteps were quickly swallowed by the house and in his and Selina’s absence, the only sound for the moment was the grandfather clock somewhere behind him.

"I have to admit, I was worried she was going to be a bad influence on him," Jim said after a moment. "But it doesn't look like it."

"On Master Bruce? No." Alfred looked tired for a moment, worn a little thin. "I don't think he needs any help in that department."

"No," Jim agreed. "I don't suppose he does." He remembered well enough what _he_ had been like after his father had died. It'd taken a long time, an almost misspent youth, and the armed forces to straighten his head out. God knew what a kid like Bruce was going to do when he hit his late teens, but Gordon had already resolved, that night on the fire escape in that alley with Bruce shuddering out sobs beside him, that he wasn't going to let him self-destruct, not if Jim could help it.

"He seems a bit better, though," he added, and watched Alfred watching his own glass as he swirled the remains of his drink around in it.

"Perhaps a little," Alfred admitted finally, and then climbed out of his chair, stepped over the pizza box and held out his hand towards Jim. For a second, Jim didn't understand what he wanted, and then he looked down and realised that Alfred was asking for his bottle, and that it was empty.

"Thanks," he said, handing it up. Alfred's mouth thinned, an almost smile.

"All part of the service," he quipped and stepped away to the - in Jim's opinion - impressive sideboard with its little hidden bar fridge. "I’ve been teaching him how to fight," he continued, not looking at Jim while he poured a couple of drinks and then came back to Jim’s side.

"Is that wise?" Jim wondered, accepting his glass.

Alfred’s mouth twitched briefly into something that was not quite a smile right before he tossed back his shot in one. "I have no bloody idea," he grunted.

"Yeah," Jim said, taking a sip of what was terribly good scotch that was probably going to go straight to his head. "He knows his own mind, I guess."

"Unlike," Alfred added casually, bending down to put his empty glass on the coffee table, "some people I could name."

Jim blinked. "Come again?"

"You might think it’s escaped my notice,” he said, straightening, “but you still haven’t answered my question, have you. And don’t tell me again you came to check up on us, because that, if you’ll forgive me, is a load of Jackson Pollock."

"It’s what?"

" _Bollocks_ , mate," Alfred clarified, in almost the same deliberately patient tone he'd just used with Selina. "Garbage. You know she's safer here than in witness protection, or you would never have brought her in the first place. _And_ I think you're probably well aware that if anything _were_ to happen, I would die before I let harm come to those children. So the truth this time, if you’d be so kind."

Jim frowned, looking away. "I don't know what you want me to say," he said.

"You can start," Alfred answered, "with what you really want."

"What I want?" Jim repeated, laughing hollowly. "How long have you got? I want all the crooked cops off the force. I want the crooked judges disbarred, and the crooked politicians out of office. I want the mobsters and the hustlers and the cons and the killers in this town to know they can't get away with it, not anymore. I want kids like Bruce and Selina to be _safe_ when they go out, and safe when they're at _home_. I _want_ -"

The touch of Alfred's fingers on his chin, almost like earlier when he'd been patching him up in the kitchen, except not, made him stop, and only then did he realise that his voice had been rising, that there was an unhappy knot of tension buried deep in his chest that wasn't unravelling, that was strangling him. He took a shaking breath, trying to get his anger back under control, and looked up.

"No, mate," Alfred said with a soft frown. "What _you_ want."

Maybe it was the emphasis on _you_ , the way Alfred said it; maybe it was the touch of his fingers, keeping Jim from turning away without any real pressure. Maybe it was his face, the look on it that seemed to say he already knew, that he was just waiting for Jim to work it out. Whatever it was, something inside Jim just… broke open, a gentle, silent collapse of that tangle and suddenly there were so many things Jim wanted, and none of them he knew how to get.

"Barbara left," he said finally. "And I miss her, and I thought I'd want her back but I’m... I'm not sure I do, because she doesn't understand. She'll never understand. But it’s been… a tough week, and I just… I didn’t want to be alone either."

"Good," Alfred said, like Jim had almost gotten it right. "But you can do better."

Jim stared up at him, felt his blood suddenly pulsing in his veins. He couldn't say what it was in Alfred's face right then, but it made him abruptly aware of his own skin, of every part of it that was exposed, his arms where he'd removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, the hollow of his throat where the top three buttons of his shirt were undone, his chin where Alfred was still propping his head up. It made him aware of where he hurt, a low, hot ache that somehow seemed to spread through his body, coalescing into something urgent low in his gut. And then Alfred's thumb shifted, just subtly, and pressed against the corner of his mouth. The beat of Jim's blood ratcheted up a notch and suddenly he knew exactly what he was seeing, and all his wants, all his frustrated desires and his longings reduced down into a single need. He reached up blindly and caught at Alfred's trouser leg, hand shaking as he spread it open up Alfred's warm, muscular thigh, and God, this was what he wanted. This.

"There's no shame, mate," Alfred said softly. "Just a little comfort behind the front lines, right? If that's what you need."

It didn't sound like a question, but Jim knew he needed to answer it just the same.

"Yes," he said, and opened his mouth a little.

Alfred’s face, the heavy, hot look in his eyes and the way he stared at Jim’s mouth as he pressed his thumb slowly between Jim's lips, the soft, controlled breath he let out as Jim closed his lips around the digit and slid his tongue across it, made the air in the room go thin. It went thinner still as Alfred shifted his hand to slide it along the side of Jim’s jaw and down to his shoulder and then pushed, pressing him back into the couch until Jim was leaning back, knees spread, and Alfred was sliding to the floor between them.

“Here, give me that,” Alfred said, and took the forgotten glass out of Jim’s hand and put it out of the way on the coffee table. “Now.” His mouth quirked to one side. “You just sit back and let me take care of it.”

Jim was about to ask, _It?_ , but then Alfred’s strong fingers were pulling at his belt, and then they were on his trouser fly, and ‘it’ became pretty apparent.

“Oh,” Jim said, swallowing against a suddenly tight throat and a surge of arousal made his cock fill well past starting to pay attention and settle impossibly on _God, he’s going to-_

Not going to; _was_ , and for a second the sight of Alfred Pennyworth on his knees between Jim’s legs warred savagely for his attention with the _feel_ of it, his mouth sliding hot and confident down Jim’s cock.

“Oh, God,” Jim gasped, as sensation won out and his head slumped back against the couch, and like it was some kind of reward, Alfred _sucked_ , and Christ, Jesus _Christ_ , his tongue, the way it curled, made Jim twitch and then shiver right down to his toes. Alfred made a sound, like satisfaction, that brought Jim’s hips briefly up off of the couch, and then his hand was in Alfred’s short, soft hair, and he was panting and, oh, fuck, was that the back of Alfred’s _throat_?

"Oh, Christ,” Jim choked out. “Oh, _Christ_. No, wait, stop."

Alfred did, immediately and without complaint, but his thumbs pressing into the crease of Jim’s hips were rubbing slow, indolent circles and for a second Jim fought the urge to just drag him back down again and to hell with it.

“Stop,” Alfred repeated, and his voice, usually rough, was even more so. The sound of it made Jim’s toes curl. “Why, exactly?”

Jim could cite at least a half a dozen reasons why, ranging from _This is unprofessional and unethical,_ to, _Bruce is upstairs somewhere; what if he comes down for a god damn glass of milk?_ But none of those reasons would have been quite true.

“This isn’t…” he managed. “It isn’t what I want.”

Alfred’s face went very still. Even his thumbs stopped moving.

“I… see,” he said, and Jim could feel every line in his body tensing to move.

" _No_ ," Jim grated. "I mean-" And then he just gave up, grabbed Alfred’s waistcoat and dragged him forward, sliding off the chair in the process and spreading his thighs over Alfred’s lap as he practically fell into kissing him.

And maybe Alfred hadn’t been expecting that, somehow hadn’t thought that Jim would want this too, would want this to be two way, equal shares, because he sucked in a breath that took the air out of Jim’s lungs, and then his hands were flat and heavy between Jim’s shoulder blades as he pressed him closer, pressed him up against the couch and kissed him in return. Jim groaned softly, and not just because the full body contact made his bruised ribs protest.

"I see," Alfred said again, a little unsteadily, when they parted. "You’re sure."

It wasn’t as much of a question as perhaps it should have been, but Jim’s answer wasn’t going to change. Instead he let go of one of Alfred’s shoulders and shoved his hand down between them, and Christ, Jesus Christ did his hard cock feel good in the confines of those expensive suit trousers, good enough that he kissed him again, sweeping his tongue into his mouth, tasting the faint trace of himself, and seriously, much longer and Jim was going to a be lot less concerned about whether the other occupants of this enormous house reappeared for a bed time story.

"Sodding hell," Alfred panted against Jim’s mouth. "Right, that’s it.” And then his hands were tucking Jim back into his pants and refastening his fly. “Up."

Jim struggled backwards into the couch, and then Alfred was standing, leaning down to scoop a hand under his arm and pull him to his feet. Jim didn’t know where they were going as Alfred not so much dragged as hustled him out of the drawing room, down the hall, through one door, and then, for God’s sake, another - how big _was_ this place? - until finally, another door opened and Jim found himself stepping into a bedroom, clearly Alfred’s. It wasn't terribly big, nor nearly as ostentatious as what little of the rest of the house Jim had seen, but it held a collection of what looked like personal things; a dressing table with a handful of plain, simple items, a clothes horse with a suit hanging from it, next to a wardrobe in the corner, a large arm chair with a robe thrown over it. There was small bookshelf with a couple of photos in frames on it, too far away for Jim to see who the people in them were, and a bedside table with a lamp and an open book face down beside it. And a four poster bed. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or throw himself at it in abandon.

“Detective,” Alfred said, closing the door behind them, and Jim drew in a breath and turned.

“Detective?” he echoed, and Alfred’s mouth twitched at the corners again.

“James.”

Jim quirked his head to one side.

"Jimmy," Alfred said, smirking.

“If you like,” Jim said, pulling a face.

“Still sure?”

Jim raised an eyebrow. “I don’t look it?” He took a step backward, towards the bed.

The corners of Alfred’s mouth pulled instead of twitched this time, a slow, sharp smile that just made Jim’s heart beat a little faster as he took a single step in the same direction.

“Oh, you look it, mate. I was just being considerate.”

Jim raised his hands and started reaching for the buttons on his shirt for the second time that evening.

“Does considerate extend to having lube and condoms in here somewhere?”

Alfred wet his lips. “Likely it does.”

Jim took another step back, and then another, and another, until he could feel the edge of the bed behind him. Alfred matched him step for step, stalking him like prey, and Jesus, that was hot.

“Okay,” Jim said. “So, maybe you want to…” He shrugged out of his own shirt, and later he’d laugh when he remembered the way Alfred’s eyes followed it with a small frown as he dropped it on the floor, but right now, all he was interested in was getting to the part where they were both naked, and Alfred was starting to seriously fall behind here.

He was catching up though, his movements quick and economical as he pulled his tie undone, undid his waistcoat and moved to drape it over the clothes horse. Jim had his trousers undone again and was struggling out of his undershirt by that time, hissing under his breath at the ache flaring along his side as he started trying to pull it over his head.

"Tsk," he heard Alfred tut, and then the man's hands were on him again, warm skin contact, no latex this time.

“Not a word,” Jim huffed as Alfred helped him pull the undershirt off entirely.

"The only thing I was going to say, mate, was bedside drawer," Alfred lied, crowding Jim against the edge of the bed, and then they were kissing again, Alfred's hand skimming down the good side of Jim's ribs as Jim parted his lips and tangled their tongues together and tried his best to mould himself to Alfred's shape. Alfred's fingers hit his waistband and clenched on his bare hip, and Jim took a breath and tipped backwards towards the bed, dragging Alfred with him.

"Fuck," he gasped sharply as they landed.

"I got a feeling," Alfred panted back with a frown, trying to lever his weight off Jim's bruises, "this is not going to be the best sex you've ever had."

"Wow," Jim laughed breathlessly, wriggling to get comfortable, with the added bonus that when his thigh slid between Alfred's, Alfred's eyes went dark and intent. "You're really selling yourself there, Pennyworth."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean. Christ, you're worse than Miss Kyle, mouthy brat."

Jim just grinned. "Come on, _how_ many positions in the Karma Sutra are there? There's got to be at least one that won't kill me."

"Sixty four," Alfred grunted as Jim rolled his hips against his. "And I can think of at least nine. But if you keep doing that, we won't even get to the first."

"Well, come on," Jim urged, and since Alfred's trousers were far too well tailored for him to fit his hands down the back of, he just grabbed his ass and pulled. "Why the hell are we both still wearing pants?"

"Yes. Used to doing all the work, I am," Alfred muttered, pausing to press a kiss to Jim's mouth before he was slithering back off the bed, hands tugging Jim's trousers and boxers with him. Jim laughed when he got to his feet, trying to kick his shoes off even while Alfred was attempt to untie the laces, then laughed again when his sock flew in a careless arc over Alfred's shoulder and Alfred pressed a biting kiss to the arch of his bare foot.

"Drawer?" Alfred instructed, and Jim shuffled and twisted around to reach the table while Alfred began skimming off the rest of his clothes.

"I could be done before you finished folding all that," Jim laughed when he turned back with the supplies to find Alfred, stark naked, neatly draping both their trousers over the blanket box at the end of the bed.

"Clearly, you don't do your own ironing," he returned tartly.

Jim just threw the condoms at him, popped the top on the lube, and spread his legs.

"Clearly," he countered, "you've got your priorities all wrong."

The muscle effort it took to reach far enough down to prep wasn't exactly easy considering his various aches and pains, but it was worth it to see Alfred's face as he watched.

"Jesus, Jim," Alfred said reverently, crawling onto the bed, hand running up Jim's straining thigh as Jim twisted two slick fingers into himself.

"Fuck," Jim gasped again. "That part where you said you'd do all the work…"

"Gimme," Alfred snapped, reaching for the lube. "And get over."

Jim was getting used to Alfred's British-speak, because when he took that to mean _turn over_ and promptly did, Alfred didn't stop him. For a second, while he put his head down and just tried to find the most comfortable angle, he heard the crinkle of a condom packet, and then Alfred's warm, dry hand slid from the small of his back to the curve of his ass.

"Mmm," he intoned, half permission, half enjoyment of the firm warmth of Alfred's touch and then two fingers were sliding back into him. Jim breathed and let the shudder of sensation of someone other than Barbara-

He forced that thought out as quickly as it appeared. For just once, just for now, he wanted this for himself, without guilt, without regret.

"Okay, mate?" Alfred demanded softly, his fingertips rolling unerringly over Jim's prostate.

"Ha," Jim panted, shuddering again, and rolling his hips back into Alfred's hands. " _Yeah_. Keep going." Alfred had said this was going to be bad, but if that was the case, Jim wasn't sure he wanted to know Alfred's definition of good, because the transition from two fingers to three was so smooth Jim didn't even need to adjust. In fact, he was having difficulty just letting Alfred work without starting on the begging, and he was holding on by a thread by the time he felt Alfred's weight on the bed shifting, felt his hands shifting, felt his cock head pressing with hot insistence against Jim's asshole. And then Alfred wasn't asking him if he was good to go, he was just pressing in, one long, slow thrust that had Jim clutching gratefully at the sheets in an effort not to rush it.

His arms were shaking holding him up when Alfred bottomed out with a soft groan that sent a surge of hot arousal flushing through Jim's system. He was pushing back before he could stop himself.

" _Jesus_ ," Alfred groaned again, his fingers digging into Jim's hipbones against the involuntary thrust of his hips.

"Yeah, come on," Jim breathed, trembling. "Fuck me."

Alfred curled one hand over Jim's shoulder, held him in place, and did, and that was the end of Jim's self-restraint. Maybe this was the way Alfred liked to do it. Maybe it just made sense; this way Alfred’s grip on his him wasn’t in danger of straying too close to his ribs. Either way, it was good. Better than good; it was god damn _amazing_. It was exactly right, what he wanted. It didn’t matter that every thrust made his chest ache along with the pleasure. What mattered was that Alfred – Jesus fuck – didn’t _stop_.

And Jim didn’t care anymore. He didn’t fucking care if his voice was carrying, every gasp and grunt and choked-off word. He didn’t care about how he looked or whether this was a mistake or what it would even mean if it wasn't. He was so hard, and Alfred’s cock felt so good, shoving across his prostate again and again and again until he was almost sobbing for breath, until he couldn’t spread his legs wide enough. It obliterated all thought and left only sensation, smell, sound – their mingled sweat and musk, the sounds that were coming out of him, Alfred’s ragged breathing and his voice as he panted, ”Come on, Jimmy boy," in a tone that made Jim want to be on his back and taking it instead.  He moaned and shifted enough of his weight to put a hand around himself, just letting Alfred's rhythm push him into his own fist until the need to come gripped him, held him on its edge, kept him there, taunted him.

"Al- fred," Jim managed, and even he could hear the raw desperation in his voice. Alfred's weight shifted, laid itself out along Jim's back, his skin hot and moist, and the arm Jim was using to prop himself up gave out. They collapsed together, Jim groaning again, this time in frustration.

"Shh, it's okay, Jim," Alfred hushed, rolling Jim off his face a little and folding one leg up almost between Jim's. "It's all right, love. I've got you."

The hand not trapped between their bodies and the bed snaked around Jim's side and wrapped around his cock and Jim's eyes rolled back in his head. Alfred was barely thrusting at all in this position, but somehow that just made it _more_. Jim could feel him along the whole length of his body, like they were tangled up, and Jim felt… Christ, he felt _held_ in more senses than just the physical. He gripped Alfred's forearm, arched himself back against Alfred's body and into the cradle of his hips, onto his cock, and Alfred's breath hitched against the side of Jim's neck and he said Jim's name, rough and reverent, and, God. Christ, he was _coming_. It was like a spark to fuel. Jim felt it sweep up from his toes, and then there was nothing but pulsing, throbbing pleasure, that when it ebbed left him face down and gasping into the bedding.

It felt like a long time before either of them moved, Alfred first, sliding carefully out of Jim and then the bed. Jim drifted for a while, thought about moving and then rejected the idea, until Alfred came back and the feel of a warm cloth on his ass made Jim muffle a complaint into the comforter.

"Come on, Jimmy boy," Alfred sighed. "Roll that lovely arse over. You're lying in a wet patch."

Jim decided it probably wasn't worth putting up a fight about and shoved himself slowly over onto the other side of the bed. In some complicated move that Jim really couldn't follow, the comforter was gone, just like that, and Alfred was sliding back into bed again and dragging a fresh one up and over them.

"Ha," Jim snorted as he gazed up at him. Alfred raised an eyebrow at him, almost looming for a moment.

"What’s so funny then?"

Jim laughed again. He might have been a little high. Probably not a surprise, considering.

"You," he said. "You look like the cat that got the cream."

Alfred’s eyebrows went up at that, but he smiled. "And you like right well fucked. I might be just a tad biased here, but I believe it suits you."

"Well," Jim said. "Considering how many people have screwed me recently, it’s the first time I’ve actually enjoyed it."

"Tsk," Alfred scoffed. "Bloody amateurs."

"I'm going to pass out now," Jim decided. "You want me out?"

There was something soft in Alfred's face for a moment then as he looked down on him. Whatever was making it happen, Jim kind of liked it.

"Nah," he said. "I'd have to go make your bed up, wouldn't I?" He palmed Jim's ribs, gentle again. It might have been the dopamine coursing through Jim's system, but it hardly hurt at all now. "We're not _actually_ a guest house, and to be honest, I couldn't be arsed moving."

"But you are making pancakes in the morning," Jim slurred, as unconsciousness started to drag him down. "Right?"

"Go to bloody sleep," Alfred huffed. He might have also said, _Maybe if you're good_ then too, but Jim was lost to darkness before he could be sure.

++++++++

He woke sometime in the early morning. The bedside light was out, and it seemed still well before dawn. Alfred was still lying next to him. They weren't really touching, except for where Alfred's hand lay on his forearm, like it had been wrapped around it but had relaxed in sleep, and that was… nice, almost. Jim sighed out a breath and closed his eyes again.

"Okay, Jim?" came Alfred's soft voice in the dark, and Jim sighed again and then shifted, rolling into Alfred's space, snaking his limbs around the man, pressing himself against warm skin, pressing a kiss to the shoulder he had tucked himself into.

"Yeah," he husked. "You?"

"Yeah, mate," Alfred said, and settled more closely into Jim's embrace. "Yeah, I would say I am."

He sounded a little surprised. It made Jim smile as he fell back asleep.

+++++++

When Jim woke again he was alone and it was light out. He made use of the bathroom that adjoined Alfred's room, showered and then dressed and went in search of him and found him in the kitchen, looking just as perfectly put together as he'd looked yesterday. Jim breathed in the smell of cooking food – bacon and the promised pancakes and eggs frying – and watched for a moment, content in a way he couldn't remember being in a while, until Alfred turned and saw him and stopped what he was doing. His mouth quirked at the edges for a moment in that way he had when he was smiling. Jim smiled back.

"Kids not up?" he asked and came into the kitchen proper, took a seat on the stool Alfred had had him perched on yesterday. There was a plate on the kitchen island with a stack of pancakes already piling up, and a silver tray populated with an almost overwhelming spread of delicious looking breakfast foods. Jim had no idea how long Alfred had been up, and he had been thinking it was a shame they hadn't woken up together, but then again, this wasn’t a bad thing either.

"Master Bruce is finishing up his morning swim," Alfred said, and slid another pancake from the skillet in his hand onto the plate on the bench. "And if the last several days are anything to go by, Ms Kyle will be appear at the precise moment the food is served."

Jim laughed at that. "Just like a cat, huh?"

"Precisely," Alfred agreed, his movements easy as he poured another pancake into the skillet. “I hope I haven’t overstepped my bounds, but I took the liberty of calling your partner this morning to let him know you wouldn’t be in until later.”

Jim blinked. “You called Harvey? At this hour?”

Alfred looked a little annoyed for a moment. “Yes, well, my mistake, as it turns out. Detective Bullock certainly has a way with words.”

Jim tried not to laugh. He almost succeeded too.

“Yeah, Harvey’s a character. Sorry. I should have warned you.”

Alfred shrugged. “No harm done.”

"Alfred," Jim said seriously, watching him. "Thank you. And I don’t mean for calling in."

Alfred paused, but didn't look at him. "You make it sound like I didn't get something out of it," he said mildly. "I’m no altruist, mate. I got quite a bit out of it, in point of fact."

"No," Jim agreed. "I know. I was there."

Alfred flashed him a look at that, warm and amused.

"It's just," Jim continued, struggling to find the right words.

"We're both of us carrying more than we can sometimes hold," Alfred said softly, staring at the pancake bubbling in the skillet for a moment. “I don’t know about you, but a man can use a helping hand every now and then.”

"Yeah," Jim agreed, equally soft. "Guess maybe you should be thanking me too then, in that case."

Alfred seemed to come back to himself, and threw Jim one of his more scathing looks.

"If I wasn't," he told Jim archly, "d'you think you'd be getting pancakes?”

“Wasn’t what, Alfred?” came Bruce’s voice from the door. Jim turned, and Bruce was standing there, his attention shifting curiously from Alfred to Jim. His hair was still wet, obviously from his swim, or more likely the shower that had followed it, since he dressed.

“Morning, Bruce,” Jim greeted.

“Good morning, Detective Gordon,” Bruce greeted, with a small smile. “I’m glad to find you still here. Did you sleep well last night?”

Jim deliberately did not look at Alfred at that. Bruce might have only been fourteen but he had good instincts and he’d know something was up, something that Jim wasn’t sure was ever going to happen again. Not that, he decided, he’d mind so much if it did.

“I did, thanks.”

“Detective Gordon was concerned that I was less than happy with his more… unofficial presence in the house,” Alfred supplied smoothly, and while it wasn’t precisely the truth, it wasn’t entirely a lie either, Jim realised.

“Oh,” Bruce said, and frowned. “But you didn’t give that impression, did you Alfred?”

Alfred looked back at him coolly for a moment, and deftly flipped another pancake.

“No, Master Bruce,” he replied. “I don’t believe I did.”

“In fact,” Bruce said, turning back to Jim. “You’re welcome here any time. Even after Cat has to go. Right, Alfred?”

“Certainly, Master Bruce,” Alfred agreed, throwing a quick look at Jim as he slid the latest pancake onto the stack. “Far be it from me to deny the pleasure of his company.”

There wasn’t any emphasis anywhere out of the ordinary, but the word ‘pleasure’ coming out of Alfred’s mouth and Jim’s memory of last night made Jim equally want to shift uncomfortably or lean across the bench and kiss Alfred on his sly, sardonic mouth.

He settled for getting a little of his own back.

“Well, then,” he said lightly. “I guess I’ll just have to come more often.”

Alfred was too controlled to drop anything, but he looked startled for the briefest of moments. Jim hid a smile.

“Great,” Bruce said. “That’s great.” The relief in his tone, when Jim hadn’t realised there’d been any tension there in the first place, made Jim feel momentarily guilty for having a little fun at Alfred’s expense. “Shall we go out onto the terrace, Detective Gordon? I think breakfast is just about to be served. And if we’re not there when Cat arrives, we’re likely to miss out.”

“Oh, it’s all right, Master Bruce,” Alfred called after them as they slipped out into the hall. “I’m sure I can find a little extra for the Detective!”

Jim just bet he could.

“See?” Bruce said, and uncharacteristically took Jim’s hand because apparently he wasn’t moving fast enough for Bruce’s liking. “If Alfred’s looking after you, then everything’s fine.”

“Yeah,” Jim mused. “I guess it is.”

All that and breakfast too.


End file.
